The True Short End of the Stick
by Gypsy Love
Summary: Johnny's life from his point of view.


My shirt was bunched up in my old man's hand, and I was barely touching the floor. He was drunk, he was always drunk. And he was mad. His eyes were narrowed at me and he was yelling, but I could barely hear the words. The words didn't matter. The only thing that mattered was that I was about to get hit. Every muscle was tensed, and I could feel the adrenaline that coursed through me. I twisted and struggled in his grasp but it didn't do no good, I couldn't get away.

When it was all over I was laying on the floor, just feeling the relief with the pain. It was over, for today at least. I stood up slowly, feeling dizzy, seeing spots of blood on the floor from something, my busted lip or my nose, it didn't matter.

I went outside into the darkness, wondering where to go now. I could just curl up and sleep in the lot. I didn't really feel like seeing nobody, having 'em ask what happened, why was I all bloody and everything. Having them feel sorry for me and look at me like they would, with that pity.

But the lot wasn't empty, I could see people there by the fire, smoking, drinking. I wouldn't drink. I saw what it did, I saw my folks in the morning needing a drink. It wouldn't be me. I wouldn't become an alcoholic like they were. What chance did I have to not be one if I started drinking? It was in my blood.

What chance did I have for anything? I was flunking out of school. I had no future, not like Ponyboy and all his good grades and everything. He'd go to college and be successful and I was so jealous. But that didn't matter. You got what you got. I got violent alcoholic parents and a brain that could barely figure shit out. It was the true short end of the stick.

I guessed I'd go to Pony's house. It was somewhere to go. At least no one would hit me there. Maybe I'd just never go back to my house, there was no reason to. No reason at all. I should know by now that they were never going to change, but yet I didn't really know that. I kept thinking they would.

So I went there, and I walked in without knocking, and Darry was home from work and reading the paper under the lamp in that chair he liked to sit in.

"Hey, Johnny," he said, before he even looked up.

"Hey," I said softly, hoping he wouldn't look up cause I knew I was a mess, and everything was aching. My arm felt wrenched out of its socket, my nose was still bleeding, I could feel it and smell the blood.

"Jesus," he said, looking up at me. I cringed against the wall, my head down. I didn't want the tears to start but I could feel them, I could feel them burning behind my eyes.

"What the hell happened?" he said, standing up and coming over to me. I didn't mean to but I couldn't help flinching away from him. It was the quick way he came over to me.

"It's alright, hey, come here," he said, talking very softly to me, like I was this injured animal. He took hold of my arm and lead me to the bathroom, and I knew that I shouldn't be so tensed up but I couldn't help it. I knew how screwed up I was and how screwed up I acted but it was...I couldn't control it. I didn't like people touching me, anybody, any kind of touch. I didn't like hugs, I didn't like people slapping me on the back, I didn't like Darry holding onto my arm to lead me to the bathroom.

The bathroom light was so bright it hurt my eyes and I squinted against it. One eye was watering like crazy and I guess my old man got a good one near that eye. I guessed. I didn't really remember any of the beatings, I kind of blanked out when it happened. That was screwed up, too.

Darry was getting out band-aids and washcloths and I just watched him do it. I took a shuddery breath, still feeling like I was gonna cry like a little fucking baby. I wished that Darry was my father, like he kind of was for Ponyboy.

"Sit," Darry said, pointing to the closed toilet seat, so I sat, my legs feeling almost like rubber. The adrenaline rush was leaving me now. I felt exhausted and kind of drunk, nearly. He wet the washcloths under the faucet and lined up the band-aids on the edge of the sink, and I closed my eyes while he cleaned up all the blood.

"What happened?" he said, when I was as cleaned up as I could get. I touched my swelling lip with one finger, feeling the sting and the blood. Darry wondered if it was my old man or the socs, or someone from one of the other gangs around. What did it matter what happened?

I closed my eyes again, seeing my father just before he grabbed my shirt, seeing that look of stupid hate in his eyes.

"My old man," I said, not opening my eyes.

"Okay, c'mon, you're all cleaned up now," he said, his voice still soft and soothing. What did Darry think? He must think I was just this abused to shit little fuck with no hope and no way out.

In the living room I didn't see or hear Ponyboy or Soda, maybe they were out. I didn't want to go hunting for them. The less people I was around right now the better. Darry went back to reading his paper and I just sat on the couch, stared at some football game that was on T.V. I couldn't see it too good, that eye was kind of blurry.

"Want something to eat?" Darry said, and I shook my head no. I was hardly ever hungry lately. I knew I was losing weight but I didn't care. So my clothes hung on me, so what? Nothing mattered. The less space I took up the better.


End file.
